


Always Your Friend

by Magfreak



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 02:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16735131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magfreak/pseuds/Magfreak
Summary: Scenes from the friendship between Thomas Barrow and George Crawley in the years after the end of the show, jumping back and forth in time.





	1. Chapter 1

"Here you are!" George said pushing the curtains apart enthusiastically and letting the late afternoon light into the otherwise dark room. "Best view in the house."

Thomas coughed, which George laughed at, knowing it was Thomas' way of registering his skepticism.

He was elderly, nearing 90 years of age, and had been walking with a cane for years, but George could still see the straight line of his shoulders, as if a string were pulling them back. His lips were likewise in their usual straight grim line. George smiled as he watched Thomas walk slowly, deliberately toward him to the window. Thomas looked out only for a moment, then turned back to look at the room.

"A Turk died here once."

"I know."

"How could you possibly know?"

"Mother told me."

Thomas turned toward George in surprise.

George chuckled. "She didn't mean to. In her last few years, her mind was in a very fragile state. She was lost in her own memories." George looked away and smiled sadly as he added, "I think I learned more about her relationship with my father at the end than I did the whole of my life."

Thomas rapped his cane on the floor. "Rubbish! She spoke to you often about him. So did I. So did we all."

"About _him_ , but not about their life together, however brief it was."

Thomas looked down and was quiet for a long moment. "I imagine it was hard for her," he said finally.

George sighed. "I know. I don't blame her, neither do I blame Henry, who was always good to me. Still, I had a bit of fun listening in as she spilled some of her secrets. For a woman so staked to tradition, it would seem she had a bit of a wild streak. I'd never tell anyone else this, but since it's you . . . did you know she bedded the Turk?"

"So did I," Thomas said dryly.

"What?!"

"I wanted to anyway. I tried and was rebuffed."

George laughed. "Maybe he regretted it, and that was what killed him."

Thomas turned to look at George, a small smile on his lips. "You're a good person to indulge me like this, milord. The best of men. Mr. Crawley would have been proud, no doubt. I know you tire of hearing how you resemble him, but it is true. Inside and out."

"Thank you, Barrow. I don't mind hearing it from you."

"I'd say you continue to make Lady Mary proud, but I've no doubt she's rolling in her grave now, knowing you're letting me stay here."

"I doubt that. She was very fond of you, you know."

"Never as fond of me as she was of Mr. Carson."

"Which one was he?"

"My predecessor. Crotchety old fart. You better believe _he'll_ be haunting me if she doesn't."

"Well, someone has to live here. With the children all grown and gone now, Laura prefers London, and I must say so do I. The steward says the tours don't come near this wing of the house, anyway, so you won't be disturbed."

Thomas opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by his nurse, who came in with his suitcases. "Here you are, Mr. Barrow," the young man said without looking up. When he did, he noticed George. "Oh, hello, Lord Grantham. I didn't think you'd still be here."

"Just making sure Barrow is well settled. Your room is just next-door and should be ready as well. The housekeeper told me as much this morning."

"It is, indeed, milord, thank you."

George looked back and for between the young man and Thomas. "Why don't I go ask her to bring some tea in the library," he said to Thomas.

"Could she serve it here, milord," the nurse said quickly. "Mr. Barrow has had a long day already, and he'll need to have his medications shortly."

Thomas stomped his cane again in annoyance. "I can manage perfectly well."

"No, no, no!" George cut in. "Here will be just fine. We have this lovely view, anyway."

Thomas rolled his eyes.

"Barrow, we've paid for the best doctors for you—what good would that be if we ignore their advice."

Thomas turned to the window. "My shoddy lungs aren't killing me. Old age is."

George smiled and put his hand on Thomas' shoulder. "Says the man who's likely going to out live us all."

Thomas looked at George from the side of his eyes and his lips couldn't help but twitch into a small smile.

"Why don't I go fetch the tea," the nurse said.

George turned to him again. "That would be nice, thank you."

"You don't have to do this, you know," Thomas said with a sigh, after the young man had left the room.

"I don't like to think of this house without you in it," George said.

Thomas laughed. "You were always so sentimental."

"Mother said it was granny's American blood in me."

"Or your fool Irish uncle's influence."

George laughed. "You never did like Uncle Tom much, did you?"

"I'm the only one who remembers what a nuisance he was as the chauffeur."

"You remember everything."

"A blessing and a curse."

"Do you want to know what I remember?"

Thomas furrowed his brow, a mix of curiosity and skepticism in his expression, which made George smile.

"I remember you. You were holding me . . . it's my oldest memory, as it happens. We're in the servants hall. I'm in your arms. I can't have been more than five years old—three or four perhaps. I feel sad for some reason, and you tell me that you're always going to be my friend. Do you remember that?"

Thomas didn't answer. He looked steadfastly out the window, but George could see the old man's eyes filling with tears.

George swallowed the lump in his own throat and added, "I want you to know, Barrow. I never had a better one."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of George's departure at the onset of World War II.

It was near 2 a.m., about the only time day or night that the servants hall was empty.

As he sat at the butcher block in the kitchen, George regarded the pattern on the small, fragile teacup in his hand. It was the only kind of glass or cup he'd been able to find, but it was doing its job.

With a laugh, George brought it to his lips and drank the whiskey he'd poured into it in one go. He closed his eyes, savoring the smoky taste of the warm liquid as it went down his throat, then set the cup back down on the wooden table with a small clatter. He was about to pour another drink from the bottle he'd taken from his stepfather's liquor cabinet earlier that night when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, getting a good night's sleep?"

"I could say the same of you—aren't you meant to be up working in a few hours?"

Thomas didn't answer, saying instead, "That comes from a set that was given to your mother by Lady Susan Flintshire on the occasion of her second wedding."

George laughed out loud, not bothering to turn around as Thomas walked around to face him. "Then, she'll care not a whit if I break one. Mother hates Susan."

Thomas picked up the cup and rubbed the gold around the lip with his finger. He set it down with a snort. "I wonder if she bought it on Portobello Road."

"You would know more than me," George said, picking up the bottle again to pour. After he'd done so, he lifted it toward Thomas. With a smirk Thomas went over to the china cabinet and pulled another teacup just like George's. He moved to take the bottle, but George pulled it back.

"No, no. Let me serve you for once."

"Suit yourself," Thomas said, sitting across from George.

After he poured, George lifted his teacup. "To your good health, Barrow."

Thomas looked at the cup in his hand for a moment before saying quietly, "To yours, milord. And your safe return."

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before George spoke again.

Looking up into Thomas' eyes, he asked, "Any advice?"

"Keep your boots clean?"

George laughed out loud again, throwing his head back. Thomas smiled ever so slightly, always happy when George was.

After he'd quieted again, Thomas said, "Can I tell you a story?"

George nodded.

Thomas stood and went over to the pantry, then came back and set a small unopened can in front of George.

"Condensed milk?"

"The woman who served as the Dowager Countess' lady's maid during the war and in the years before . . . she and I were friends, I guess you could say."

"Friends? You? And a woman no less." Thomas shot George a humorless expression, causing the latter to chuckle knowingly. "I know, I know, not _that_ kind of a friend. So what, she was the sister you never had?"

"More like the evil stepmother I never had."

"What?"

"Never mind. Point is, she wrote to me during the war. Sent me things. Looked out for me. And once, two years in, when I was in The Somme, she sent me a can of condensed milk. Another man in my unit had stolen a bag of sugar from a baker along the line. That same week, I ran into your father."

George's face grew serious, but he said nothing.

Thomas continued, "Every man in the British Army passed through that wretched trench. He barely knew me. I was only a footman when he first came here. I doubt we'd exchanged words more than a handful of times in two years before the war started and I joined the medical corps. But he saw me and remembered me. He knew my name, even. So I offered him some tea. He liked it sweet. I knew that from before. It wasn't particularly warm, but he had the milk and the sugar. Nectar, he called it."

"You and my father had tea in the middle of the Great War?"

"We did."

George looked down at the small can, as if it had been the one from which his father—the father he'd never known—had been served.

"Take it," Thomas said. "You never know who you'll run into."

George picked it up and looked at the can a moment before sliding it into the pocket of his dressing gown. When he looked back up at Thomas, there were tears in his eyes. "I'm scared, Thomas."

"Only a fool wouldn't be."

"What if—"

"You'll make it home."

"But what it—"

"You'll make it home, milord. I know you will."

"I wish I could be so certain." After taking a long deep breath, he added, "I feel like a coward. I'm supposed to be full of pride, aren't I? Pride in the glory I'll bring to king and country."

"That's rubbish. You're no coward, and there is no glory in it. I'll tell you that right now. You'll see men cry for their mothers, get sick all over themselves and you, bleed and kill. And you'll see some of them step into the path of a bullet so it will all be over. Don't fear cowardice, sir. Fear the brave fools who don't know what they are getting themselves into. The coward knows what's coming. That's why he runs. That's why I ran."

George had been looking down as Thomas spoke, and when he looked up, he saw Thomas holding up his scarred hand.

"Does it still hurt?"

Thomas sighed. "War never stops hurting. Remember that too."

"Thank you, Barrow."

"Go get some sleep, why don't you?"

George smiled. "You too."

The two men—one young with his father's bright blue eyes, the other older, greyed, but still strong—stood and shook hands.

"Whatever happens, Barrow—" George started before Thomas cut him off.

"No, none of this whatever happens nonsense. What'll happen is you'll go and fight and you'll get home."

"Are you really sure I can manage it?"

"I survived, so did your father. You will too."

George smiled. "Well, I'm glad you think so, anyway."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The "dowager" referenced here is Cora and the lady's maid Thomas is talking about is O'Brien. Robert has died by this point, which is why Thomas is referring to George as "milord."


	3. Chapter 3

"It's no use! I'm rubbish!" George threw his cricket bat down and ran down the slight incline that led away from the back lawn of the house and into a small wood.

"George, wait!" Henry called out but it was no use. His 12-year-old stepson may not have been much of a cricketer at that point in his life, but he was a fast runner, and with that head start, Henry was never going to catch him. Instead, after rubbing his face with his hands, he turned and walked in the opposite direction, where Mary was sitting at a table Thomas and one of the footmen had set up so she could watch her husband practice with George ahead of the village match the following week. It would be the first after Robert's death, and Mary wanted her son to participate, even if only in a small way.

"I suppose I'm not much of an instructor," Henry said, sitting down on the grass next to Mary's chair with a sigh.

"It's not your fault," Mary said. "Poor dear, he is so easily frustrated when he encounters something he's not naturally good at."

Henry was about to get up again to go find him, when Thomas came up with a plate of sandwiches.

Looking up to him, Mary said, "Barrow, just the man we need. Would you mind terribly going to see if you can find George and persuade him to come back? He's far more likely to listen to you than either of us."

One corner of Thomas' lips curved up into a half-smile as he set down the plate and proceeded to walk down to the spot he knew well by now was George's favorite place to escape to. The boy was on the ground, slumped against a tree, his face still red with frustration. He turned slightly when he heard someone coming, but didn't bother getting up.

Thomas stood over him with his arms crossed, but said nothing.

George waited, without looking up for several minutes, until it was clear Thomas wasn't going to speak. "What!?"

"Nothing," Thomas replied. "Can't a person just stand around?"

George rolled his eyes. "I know she sent you to fetch me, but I'm not going back. And I'm not going to play in any game, no matter what she says. I won't make a fool of myself just to uphold some tradition I don't care a whit about."

"You're doing a solid job of making a fool of yourself now—tradition or no."

George's shoulders sagged. "I don't even like cricket."

"Everyone has to do things they don't like."

George looked up at Thomas again. "What do you have to do that you don't like?"

"Work in service."

George laughed in spite of himself, but he quieted when he saw in Thomas' expression that he wasn't really kidding. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Thomas shrugged. "It's a job. I get paid for it. There are worse things in life."

"You probably think I'm spoiled rotten."

Thomas shook his head. "No. Not really. You sisters on the other hand . . ."

George laughed again, more heartily."You'll get no argument from me on that."

"Mr. Talbot's too soft with them, and with you, I might add."

"Me?!"

Thomas nodded. "If it were me teaching you the game, there'd be none of this running off just because you missed one ball."

"It wasn't just one! I haven't hit any all afternoon."

"And sitting here pouting is going to help, is it?"

George's brow furrowed again, but had no answer.

Thomas stepped forward and held out his hand to help him up. "Come on, then."

George took Thomas' hand and got back on his feet. Thomas bent over and picked up the cap the boy had been wearing, brushed off the grass that was on it and handed it back to George.

"My lord—"

"Please don't call me that!"

Thomas smirked. "It's what you are."

"I don't like the sound of it. It makes me think Donk's just there, behind me."

"Maybe he is."

"Don't be silly, Barrow. I may not feel like an earl, but I don't feel like a child either. You don't have to coddle me."

"Fine then, whether you think your grandfather is watching over you or not, I will tell you that he'd be on your case about playing even more than your mother."

George sighed, but remained quiet.

"It's all right if you're no good at it," Thomas said, "but you're no good because you don't practice. If you practice, you'll get better and you'll find you might enjoy yourself a bit more. Come along, now. I'll help you this time."

"What about Henry?"

"I don't think he'll mind. Anyway, I'm a better cricketer than he is."

George chuckled and followed Thomas back up the hill to the yard where Henry and Mary were still sitting waiting for George to come around. Henry stood when he spotted them, but as they approached, Thomas gestured for him to sit back down. Taking off his jacket, and rolling up his sleeves, Thomas picked up the bat where George had thrown it down and got into a batting position.

"See how I'm standing? Do it just like that, and don't hold it too tight. Relax your hands and keep an eye on the ball."

George took the bat and got in position, as Thomas picked up one of the balls and prepared to bowl it over to George.

He was halfway into his motion when he stopped. "Where are you looking?"

George looked at him confused. "At you! Where else?!"

"Don't look at my face. Look at where the ball is—my hands. Follow it all the way to the bat, and don't try to hit it far, just keep it from hitting the wicket. That's what I'm trying to do, as bowler. Don't think about what you have to do, just keep me from doing what I have to do."

George did as Thomas instructed, and each time, the ball made contact with the bat. It only rolled a few feet in front of him, but it was enough for George to get into a rhythm. Slowly but surely, with each attempt and with each bit of instruction from Thomas, his confidence grew. And as it grew, he grew more daring with the bat until—after two dozen or so tries—he hit the bat squarely and watched in awe as it sailed over Thomas' head and into the field behind him.

He turned with a delighted grin to his mother and stepfather, who had stood at the crack of the bat and were both clapping enthusiastically.

Thomas stepped toward Henry and handed him another one of the balls, as a signal to him that he should take over again. Henry did so, patting Thomas on the back as he passed him. Thomas picked up his jacket where he'd left up and began walking back toward the house. As he passed Mary, he saw that she was smiling.

"Thank you, Barrow," she said quietly.


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, Barrow, another successful servants ball, wouldn't you say?"

Thomas turned to see Mary coming up behind him. He was standing on the edge of the salon watching the house staff dance and chat among themselves. "I believe so, milady."

"How many of these have you attended now?" Mary asked.

"I couldn't possibly say. I've lost count. And you, milady?"

"To reveal that would be to reveal my age, and I'm afraid you already know too much, Barrow."

Thomas arched an eyebrow in a way Mary recognized was Thomas' version of a smile.

"I think I've had enough for one evening, so I'm headed up," she said. "The girls have gone to bed already, and Mr. Talbot is in the library. As for his lordship, I have no earthly idea where he's hidden himself and don't have the energy to look for him. You always have better luck with that, anyway. Just make sure he doesn't turn in too late."

"Very well, milady. Good night."

Thomas turned to watch Mary walk away. When Robert Crawley had died four years ago, his grandson became earl by right, but as Master George was only twelve years old at the time, Mary officially took over the run of the house. Unofficially, that had already been true for years—she consulted Henry and Tom, of course, but both had come to see Downton as her domain and deferred to her, even in rare moments of disagreement. Still, after so much time had passed, it remained rather odd to Thomas, who had spent so much of his life at Downton Abbey, to see Mary as the head of the family and himself as her butler and right-hand man.

Many of the faces in the room now were different, and much of the outside world had changed, but this particular ritual was the same as it ever had been.

Thomas didn't like the festivities to go on too long after the family had all retired, so after another look around, he set off to track down the house's young lord so he could begin to wrap up the evening.

George wasn't in any of the main sitting rooms on the first floor. Thomas was about to head upstairs, to make sure he hadn't gone to bed without telling anyone, when he saw Henry walking to the stairs.

"Goodnight, Barrow," he said, as he headed up the steps to the landing. "I've left my brandy glass in the library. I didn't ring, as I didn't want to take anyone out of the party just for that, but could you see that it's picked up?"

"It'll be taken care of, sir," Thomas said.

"Thank you ever so much."

Thomas turned and made his way back to the library to pick up after Henry. This was footmen's work, but Thomas didn't mind doing it. It was funny the number of undignified tasks that Thomas had hated doing only when he had no choice. And anyway, if he had not picked up the tray to carry it back downstairs himself, he'd never have heard the giggle coming from the closet opposite the stairs down to the servants hall.

Having heard it, Thomas recognized it right away and rolled his eyes in annoyance.

He hated the bother having to sack people, if only because he hated having to go through the motions of replacing them.

He opened the door and cleared his throat, without bothering to look inside. "To your room at once, Harriet. You'll need to be packed by 8 tomorrow."

"Barrow?"

Thomas turned, in wide-eyed surprised to see George stepping out, hair-tussled and rather red-faced, though Thomas expected that was from sneaking drinks of his step-father's brandy and not from having just been caught in a compromised position with one of the house's more troublesome maids.

"No need to get upset, we were just having a bit of fun," George said, with a small laugh, which died in his throat as he stepped into the light and saw there was no humor in Thomas's expression.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Barrow," Harriet said in a meek voice, standing half a step behind George. "I'll just go get my shawl—"

"I said go to your room at once!"

"But—"

"Begging _your_ pardon, Harriet, but you are in no position to argue. You'll be leaving in the morning and that's that. Mrs. Stuart and I have had enough trouble with you."

Harriet looked away in an ineffective effort to hide her eye roll. She threw a glance in George's direction, but wanting to avoid further rebuke, she went on her way without another word.

Once she was gone, Thomas and George looked at one another again, neither one particularly happy with the other.

"You needn't have sacked her on my account," George said, with more anger in his voice than he ever spoke with to Thomas.

"I didn't," Thomas replied curtly. "I did it on _her_ account. She's a handful to manage and rubbish at her job. I'm not going to add 'consorts with the lord of the house' into that messy cocktail. If she hadn't been sacked before, it was because Mrs. Stuart didn't want to bother herself with looking for a replacement. But that's nothing compared with the trouble that'll come if she sticks round after this."

"So you are getting rid of her because of me—that's ridiculous!"

"No, it's sensible. You pulling her into a closet to do God knows what and expecting there not to be consequences is what's ridiculous!"

"It was nothing! It was a kiss! She was being friendly, and I got caught up in the spirit of things. If you must call it a mistake, then it was mine. You can't punish _her_ for it."

"I'm the butler of this house, milord, which makes the person who sees to its staff, which means that I can, indeed, punish her for just about anything. And this kind of an indiscretion certainly calls for it, whether you agree or not. The person I can't punish is _you_. But if you're eager to admit guilt, I'm happy to report the turn of events to your mother. Shall we go tell her now?"

George clenched his jaw, clearly frustrated, but said nothing.

Thomas sighed. "I didn't think so."

"It was just a kiss," George said again, more deflated this time. "It seems unfair that she should bear the burden of the consequences."

"It is unfair, but it's the way things are."

George rubbed his face with his hands. "Will you at least give her a decent reference? I hate to think that I ruined her life or something. I don't think I'd ever even spoken to her before tonight."

Thomas laughed. "You think you mean that much to her? I thought it was _just_ a kiss?"

"It was," George said with a roll of his eyes. "I mean, in general."

"Don't worry, milord, I don't think you're quite important enough yet to take credit for ruining anyone's life."

George smirked. No one, not even his mother, was so good as Thomas about bringing him down a notch or two when he needed it. The reason George liked it was because he could levy the sarcasm right back. "Has all the merrymaking put you in a sour mood or something?" he said.

"I'll write her a reference and see that she gets a new post within the month," Thomas said. "I can't promise that she will last there any longer than she did here, but will that, at least, assuage your guilt?"

"Yes, thank you," George said.

"And will you promise to keep yourself away from the rest of the maids?"

"Are you really so opposed to social mixing? Is that why you don't like Uncle Tom?"

"If you really have a taste for working class girls, and not merely an interest in riling me up, there are literally dozens of them in town who would likely give their right foot to kiss a young rich bachelor like yourself. I will only stand between you and the ones who will make trouble for me."

George smiled. "Fair enough."

"Well, as fun as this has been, I need to take this down," Thomas said, lifting the tray in his hand, "and you need to get to bed—your mother's orders."

"Go on," George said, pointing to the stairs. "I need some tea before bed, anyway, or I'll wake up with a massive headache. No one makes it for me so well as you do."

Thomas let out a snort and gestured for George to lead the way.

It was unlikely that any of the previous five earls of Grantham ever spent as much time in the kitchen as this one liked to, but it was a routine both he and his butler enjoyed, though neither ever said as much.

Thomas put the tray and brandy glass away and prepared the tea as George sat at the kitchen table, alternately rubbing his temples and watching Thomas in silence.

When Thomas finally served him his cup, George motioned for him to sit down.

"She wasn't flirting with me, if you were wondering," George said after taking a sip.

"I wasn't," Thomas said, with a humorless expression. "To be honest, milord, in case you have any impression to the contrary, I have no interest in knowing how you two ended up in that closet."

George laughed. "You really don't have any sympathy for me tonight, do you, Barrow? Haven't you ever just felt the urge to kiss a pretty girl?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I haven't."

"Of course, you haven't. You're Mr. Perfect."

Thomas smirked. "I didn't say I was perfect, only that I have no interest in pretty girls. Or any girls at all."

George narrowed his eyes slightly. "So you have wanted to kiss . . . _someone_."

Thomas nodded slowly, surprising himself with how much he was admitting. It had been years, practically a decade, since he'd had any thoughts regarding his personal life and inclinations. What he liked most about the role of butler was how all consuming it was. There was no room for much else, certainly not flights of romantic fancy. He looked into George's eyes now looking for malice in them, but there was none to find there. There had never been. George was as good a friend as any Thomas had ever had. He realized in this moment that he trusted the young man, even with this secret.

"I'm a human person milord," he said. "Of course, I've wanted to kiss someone."

"Just not a . . ."

Thomas shook his head before the word "woman" made it out of George's mouth.

George's eyes were wide with a sixteen year-old's curiosity. "So you're a . . . a homosexual?"

Thomas sighed. "I don't trouble myself with nomenclature. I am a man who keeps his own counsel, that's all."

George smiled at this. "Half my class at Eton are homosexuals. Would that _they_ kept their own counsel."

"They're young, randy and rich, which makes them no different from you, really, if tonight's foolishness is any indication. And they have no more consequences to fear than you do."

"I've never done anything like that before," George said, quietly. "I'm not really sure what came over me."

"Harriet came over you," Thomas deadpanned.

George couldn't help but laugh. "I'm sorry. _You_ may not think so, but she really is quite fetching."

"Well, I'll make a note of that for when we hire the next one," Thomas said. He looked down for a moment, then laughed in a way that sparked George's curiosity.

"What?"

"The chauffeur who was hired after Mr. Branson was this portly old man . . . we joked when he came on, just after Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil had run off to Ireland, whether his lordship had resolved never to hire another handsome bloke of marrying age again."

George laughed. "He kept you on staff, didn't he?"

"He knew I wasn't a threat to his daughters."

"Really?"

"It came out in a rather ugly way . . . who I am, but it came out. He knew."

"And he never gave you trouble for it?"

Thomas shook his head.

"So mother knows too?"

"She does." Thomas let out a long sigh, then added, "Lady Mary clings to the rules of the old guard like all aristocrats do, right up until the moment she doesn't. She would have given anything for Lady Sybil not to have married Tom Branson. That's a fact, and yet, once they were married, she supported them more fiercely than anyone."

"She's a puzzle, all right." George looked down and swirled his tea in its cup. After a long moment, he asked. "Have you ever been in love? Enough to have run off with someone like that?"

"Yes," Thomas said, surprising himself at the lack of hesitation.

"Who?"

"It hardly matters now. It was many, many years ago. I was a fool, not much older than yourself and not much wiser than poor Harriet. He was a duke, and he taught me an important lesson."

"What's that?"

"How you feel about a person has nothing to do with how that person feels about you, so you best look to your interests and never mind anything else . . . especially if you're someone like me."

"A servant or a . . .," George shrugged, "you know."

"Both."

"I'm sorry," George said sincerely. "Anyone else?"

"Another footman here once, but he wasn't like me."

George drank what was left of his cup and stood. "Well, Barrow, I would wish you love and happiness, but it might take you from here, and I would be utterly lost without your counsel so you'll have to settle for the lonely life of being butler of this house."

Thomas stood and began to clean up. He watched George head up the stairs again, with a bright smile and a wave and a quiet "goodnight."

_You'll have to settle for the lonely life of being butler of this house._

Thomas had experienced different types of loneliness over the course of his life.

He could do a lot worse than this.

A lot worse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George's fiance asks Thomas for a favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I dipped into this post-show universe, but I've been going through my stories recently to try to tie them all off. This one isn't a story with a beginning and and end per se, but this is likely the last vignette I'll do. I always planned to do something that involved George's future wife, and I thought long and hard about what kind of woman it would be. In the end, I thought that despite his family's traditionalism, George would end up falling for someone who was unconventional by his mother's standards and someone who would also see Thomas as more of a friend than a servant.

The young woman turned upon hearing the door open. She smiled when she saw the butler, his face the picture of detachment that she remembered from their first meeting, now almost two years ago. In his hands was a large tray holding a tea service for two.

Thomas brought it over to the small table at the end of the room and began to serve it.

Laura watched as he poured in the milk, then the tea, before dropping in two cubes of sugar. Once done, he turned and pointed to the steaming cup.

Smiling, she approached and taking the cup and teaspoon from from him to stir, said, "I hate that since meeting you even I can't prepare my own tea so well as you do."

"And now you won't have to," Thomas said, a slight smirk on his lips, resulting in an expression that was amused but not unkind.

"Do you think I've agreed to marry George for his butler, Barrow? Because if you do, you'd be absolutely right. I genuinely don't know what I'd do without you."

Thomas couldn't help but laugh. She always managed to make him do so and it warmed him that George—after a long parade of ill-advised liaisons—had managed to land a real catch.

Laura Cunningham was not old stock, certainly not old enough to satisfy George's mother. To be fair, Lady Mary was not so snobbish as she often let others believe she was, but Thomas could tell that she'd welcomed the news of their relationship and later their engagement with some reluctance. Laura was the daughter of a successful stage and film actress and the lord who'd bought her affections for a castle that she quickly sold for a tidy profit after his death when Laura was only five. So Laura had money—more than enough to save her from the accusation that she was fortune-hunting with George—but absolutely no regard for the trappings of aristocracy, having been cured of any respect for them by her bohemian mother.

She related her life story with hearty laughter to Mary, who was scandalized by it almost as much as she was by the fact that Laura only ever wore trousers. In fact, she favored cigarette pants cut to mid-calf and looked every bit the picture of Audrey Hepburn with her black turtlenecks and closely shorn chestnut brown hair.

Laura had no interest in Downton Abbey or being a countess, but she loved George too much to turn him away when he'd proposed, something George told Thomas he'd do when he'd returned home the night he met her.

"I'll come back for this later," Thomas said, moving toward the door. "I'm sure his lordship will want a cup himself when he arrives."

"Oh, please don't go," Laura said.

Thomas smiled. "Are you nervous about tonight?"

"Why would I be nervous? It's only an engagement party with the entire British upper class," Laura said with a roll of her eyes.

"Half of them wanted their own daughters to marry him."

"They should count themselves lucky. He snores like a monster, and it'll be my cross to bear forever now."

Thomas laughed again.

"I'm actually nervous because I have a question to ask you," Laura said.

"And what's that?" Thomas asked curiously.

"Well," Laura said, setting her tea cup down and approaching him. "You know that my father died when I was young, and . . . well, as much as I think giving the bride away is a terribly outdated notion, Lady Mary wants to squeeze as much tradition out of me as she can and I've said I'd go along with this one if she accepts my choice for who will do the job. And she has, believe it or not."

"Who is your choice?"

"You, of course."

Thomas looked at her agog. "Me?"

"I don't have much in the way of family other than mother. Henry offered and he's a jolly fellow but nothing to me. There really isn't anyone in my life I could possibly think of who means as much to as I know you mean to George . . . it's perfect. You're his closest friend, as funny as that is considering you're his butler and twice his age. And perhaps he's never said as much to you, but he means it. I couldn't have you _serving_ at our wedding and not actually getting to be a part of it."

Thomas was floored. "And you say Lady Mary agreed to this."

"It surprised me too. She is not so set in her ways as even I think she is."

"That is true," Thomas said, still somewhat dumbfounded. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll do it! Please!"

Thomas pursed his lips and looked down in an effort to keep his emotions at bay. "It would be an honor, Miss Cunningham."

"Ha!" Laura yelled and threw her arms around him. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

By the third, "thank you," Thomas' arms finally came around to circle her small frame.

"He said yes?"

Both Laura and Thomas turned to see George at the door.

"He did!"

George bounded into the room and wrapped his own arms around them both.

**Author's Note:**

> The memory George refers to as his earliest memory is the scene in which the kids say goodbye to Thomas when he leaves Downton in the final series, before ultimately returning. Specifically, I got the idea that this would be one of George's earliest memories but that because Thomas turns out to be a constant presence in his long life, George wouldn't remember the fact that in that moment from his early childhood, Thomas was actually leaving.


End file.
